


And Know They Love You

by MiraMira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Family, Family Loss, Female Protagonist, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Motherhood, POV Female Character, Present Tense, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Molly Weasley - and the people she loves most - across the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teach Your Children Well

**Author's Note:**

> From the Hogwarts Elite archives.

“Molly, my dear.” Dumbledore rises from his desk, clasps her hands, and looks at her with the most reassuring pair of blue eyes she knows save Arthur’s. For an instant, she can imagine she has never left Hogwarts, and the most dire predicament facing her is how to explain another detention to her parents. Then he speaks. “My condolences on your loss.”

She swallows. “Thank you, Headmaster.”

“Please, call me Albus.” He waves aside her protests with a gesture indicating she should sit, and sinks back into his own chair. “How are Arthur and the little ones? Or not so little, in young William’s case. I look forward to meeting him soon.”

“Yes, he’s very excited.” An excitement she has encouraged, as it distracts him from asking questions about his uncles. Charlie’s nightmares, alas, are more resistant, as is Percy’s sullenness and the twins’ determination to honor their namesakes by causing trouble. “Everyone is doing as well as can be expected.”

“As well as can be hoped for under the circumstances.” When she declines his offer of a sherbert lemon, he sighs and folds his hands. “You’re not here to discuss school supplies, I assume.” 

“No.” Bill, unfortunately, is not the only one who cannot leave uncomfortable questions alone. She takes a deep breath and lowers her voice. “Fabian and Gideon’s death wasn’t random, was it?”

His usual twinkle, already faded, dims further. “No.”

She squares her shoulders. “What can I do to help?”

All traces of the kindly Headmaster she knows vanish from his expression, leaving only the man who defeated Grindelwald. The only man who can defeat You Know Who. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Arthur and I have talked it over…” she starts to object.

“I’m sure you have. But so have my colleagues.” He looks tired suddenly, which scares her more than the battle glower. “You are familiar with the murder of Edgar Bones and his family?”

She nods, her hand coming to rest on her stomach as she senses where the conversation is headed.

His eyes narrow as he tracks the movement. “Those deaths were not random, either. And they nearly destroyed us all. I will not say what happened drove Fabian and Gideon to unnecessary risks, for their work was of vital importance. But from what I saw of them in those last days, it had been far too long since they last slept. Or laughed.” A tear slides down his cheek, as though this, too, is a tragedy beyond comprehension. “If you want to help, Molly, go home. Raise your boys to be the men their uncles were. Preserve their innocence as best you can.”

A traitorous feeling of relief overwhelms her guilt and indignation, which in turn gives way to resignation. She has her answer. There is nothing she can do but rise and shake his hand. “I still wish I could do more.”

“Ah, my dear.” Dumbledore shakes his head with a small, sad smile. “Yours, I fear, is by far the harder task.”


	2. Their Parents' Hell

The weather wizards predicted rain the day of Fred’s funeral, but the sky has remained stubbornly bright and cloudless throughout the service and into the burial. Molly cannot decide whether this is fitting or further insult from a universe that has seemed otherwise devoid of warmth since the initial euphoria of Voldemort’s defeat gave way to the realization that she would never hear the twins’ mingled laughter again. 

But what truly chills her is the prospect she will never again hear either of the twins’ laughter. George stands so close to the open grave, with such an intent and inscrutable expression, it is all she can do to restrain herself from throwing her arms around him and dragging him away, begging him not to leave her, too. 

Or is restraint the proper instinct? She isn’t sure. She hasn’t been sure of much since putting down Bellatrix Lestrange. And that was mere delayed reaction: too late to save Fred, or Remus and Dora, or Merlin knew how many other families. Surely there was something more she could have done.

But that hadn’t been her task, had it? _Raise your boys to be the men their uncles were,_ Albus had told her. And oh, _that_ she’d done. All too well. Foolish, if not selfish of her to even hope she’d already made her sacrifices for the cause. To think that she could protect their innocence with her attempts to keep them out of the fight: not because she had thought for a moment her pleas would work, but because they might lure fate’s attention to her instead.

“Mum?” She feels a pressure on her arm and looks up, smiling a little at the sound of another voice she had once thought lost to her. Percy appears even more concerned at the burst of tears this provokes. “Do you need to sit?”

“No. Just let me lean on you for a bit.” She raises her voice a little. “Let me lean on you all.”

George swivels his good ear in her direction. Slowly, her heart lurching with every step he takes, he comes over to join them.


	3. Feed Them on Your Dreams

The Burrow’s open door policy was reestablished decades ago. Nonetheless, when an unexpected footstep treads across the squeaky floorboard between the entryway and the kitchen, Molly still reaches for her wand with surprisingly limber reflexes. “Who’s there?”

“Only me, Gran.”

“Mol?” Molly lowers her wand, slips off the reading glasses she increasingly relies on for everyday tasks to wipe them with a corner of her apron, then puts them back on and switches to blinking her eyes in disbelief.

Touched as she was when Percy asked to name his younger daughter after her, she suspects the gesture may have done more to prevent her from having a close relationship with her grandchild than to bring them together. From her early insistence on her own nickname to her later fashion choices and vocal insistence on placing a career before childhood rearing, Mol has gone out of her way to establish herself as her own person. In the past, though, that rebellion has taken the form of piercings and unnatural shades of hair color. The meticulously styled brunette now standing before Molly could give Rose advice on handling tea with her in-laws. Molly reconsiders demanding proof of identity.

Then the brunette brushes the hair out of her familiar brown eyes in a nervous tic that is unmistakably Mol, and Molly relaxes. “Part of my next assignment. Undercover exposé. ‘s why I’m here, actually. Could be a while before I come back, and…”

Perhaps the memories of the war are too much with her today, but Molly tenses again at the phrasing. “What kind of assignment?”

“Um.” Mol shakes her hair back into her eyes, the better to avoid Molly’s gaze. “You’ve heard what’s going on in the States? The neo-pureblood movement in Atlanta?”

It’s been a long time since Molly’s had a good, long shriek at someone. Contrary to her children’s assertions, she hasn’t missed it. Nonetheless, she can feel her voice beginning to inch up the octaves as it increases in pitch. “ _That’s_ where the  Prophet’s sending you? _You_ , of all people? A Weasley? If you’re found out…”

“It wasn’t the Prophet’s idea,” Mol cuts in, with a force that startles Molly into silence. “It was mine. I know it could be dangerous, but so’s the idea of pureblood supremacy, and it’s taking root again. Somewhere else this time, but it’ll spread. Well, what if there’s a way to finally kill it before it kills anyone else? What if its new supporters have to fight their war out in the open, in front of the public, with all their bigotry and hypocrisy exposed? Someone has to force them out of hiding. Why not me?”

Brown eyes lock with brown. Then without warning, Molly pulls her granddaughter into a hug. “Make us proud.”


End file.
